The Case of the Cabochon Blue
by Lady Moonstone
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson are hired to investigate the theft of a rare and valuable gemstone, but the investigation doesn't go as either of them expected.  Crime/adventure combined with humor/bromance.  Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_Here's my third piece of Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. In this one, I wanted to emulate those wonderful original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - in other words, a straight crime mystery for Holmes to solve. Into that, I've added the humor and bromance of the Downey/Law movies. I've never tried writing any kind of crime or mystery story before, but my husband says I pulled it off pretty well. As always, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!_

**The Case of the Cabochon Blue**

**Chapter One**

Lord Gowan's home was on the outskirts of London, in one of the more affluent neighborhoods. Although not the wealthiest businessman in the city, he seemed to feel he was owed the respect due a monarch. John Watson found him an altogether insufferable man. Sherlock Holmes' opinion on the man was better left unspoken. However ...

"Shhh, Holmes." Watson leaned close to his friend's ear. "Hold it in. We need this job." Which was true. Work had been scarce of late and the rent was due. Still, that did not make Lord Gowan any less insufferable. Watson added in a whisper, "You're just mad because he had you woken up so early."

"No. I'm mad on general principal, Watson. I do not like the man. He's a boor. And a bilious one at that."

Watson frowned. "A bilious boor?"

"Just so. However, I'm not required to like him, only to solve his case."

"What's that you said?" Lestrade strode up beside them, trailed by two police constables. "You see something?"

"Only a squirrel desperately trying to steal nuts of wisdom from the smarter squirrel," Holmes replied.

Lestrade took on a put-upon expression. "We're not here to investigate the wild life, Mr. Holmes. A crime has been committed."

"Ah, yes. Of course." Holmes' smile was hugely contrived. "How foolish of me to become distracted that way."

"Holmes ..." Watson warned.

"There are footprints in the mud beneath the study window, Inspector. I guarantee you they do not belong to Lord Gowan's gardener, who is a diminutive fellow. The man crouched here was much taller and heavier. I've seen enough out here," Holmes said abruptly. He squinted up at the early morning sun, then took one last look at the grassy lawn, the fine old trees, and the line of dog roses surrounding the base of the house. "Shall we go inside?" Once indoors, Holmes demanded to see the safe. "And your sapphire was kept locked in here at all times?" he asked.

Lord Gowan nodded. He was a man of average height and above-average girth. His brown hair was balding, his chubby face red, and his small eyes held a gleam of selfishness in their depths. "That's right. The Cabochon Blue was placed in there by my grandfather when he retired from the military. It has come out on average only once yearly since, and then but briefly, for required insurance inspections."

"And you are the sole possessor of the combination to the safe?"

"Yes. However, the numbers are also written down on a sheet of paper locked in another safe in my barrister's office. I assure you, Mr. Holmes, the combination is quite secure."

"And still your bauble is missing." Holmes dropped down beside the safe to examine it more closely. "Stolen apparently, yet with no scratches or signs of disturbance to the locking mechanism."

Lord Gowan bristled. "Are you accusing me of stealing my own sapphire?"

"No," Holmes said lightly. "Why, are you confessing?"

"Holmes," Watson groaned, thinking of the rent.

"I am _not_," Lord Gowan retorted hotly. His face grew even more flushed. "And I refuse to stand here and be insulted by a -"

"My Lord," Watson said, moving smoothly into the fray, "perhaps you would like to sit down. You don't look well." Taking the man's arm, he steered him toward a nearby chair, which creaked alarmingly when Gowan lowered his bulk into it. "As you perhaps already know, I am a doctor. I would be happy to check for any ill effects the strain of this tragedy may have put upon you."

"As part of _his_ services?" Lord Gowan jabbed an irate finger in Holmes' direction.

"Yes. Yes, of course. No separate charge."

"All right then. I've had a splitting headache since discovering the theft earlier this morning, and my stomach has never been strong ..." Watson continued to listen to the man's complaints, which were myriad, and did a brief examination of his heart, lungs, pulse and blood pressure. To one side, he was aware that Holmes interviewed Lord Gowan's blonde-haired maid, Marya; Asian gardener and his wife; and dour-faced coachman. Then later he questioned Lord Gowan's brother and his new bride, and the Lady Gowan herself. What Holmes gleaned from all those discussions, if anything, the doctor could not tell.

* * *

><p>Reaching home again, Holmes beckoned to a boy he recognized. The lad came trotting down the street, a smile stretched across his thin face. Holmes sat down with him on the steps while Watson remained standing beside them. High in the sky above, storm clouds were gathering.<p>

"Hello, m'lord. Doctor." The boy was about thirteen, with shaggy brown hair and freckles. His clothing, Holmes knew, were hand-me-downs from his older brother.

"Wiggins," Holmes said without preamble, "a gemstone is on the loose. A sapphire the approximate size and shape of a hen's egg. About this big," he indicated the size with his fingers, "and of a particularly lovely shade of dark blue."

"Sounds pretty."

"Pretty enough for someone to steal it. I want you and the other boys to scour all the jewelers in town. Pawn brokers as well. The richer places, if you please - only the wealthiest establishments could afford to buy this beauty. Keep your ears open; the stone might or might not be referred to as the Cabochon Blue. Here," he added, slipping a shilling into Wiggins' grubby hand, followed by another. "And here's a second for your expenses." He quirked an eyebrow. "Let me know if you boys cost me more."

"I will, m'lord." The Baker Street Irregulars always ate like kings when on a mission for Sherlock Holmes, and what they couldn't afford was put on Holmes' expense account. It was the least he could do for them. Wiggins grinned. "With a guinea prize for a vital clue?"

"As per usual," Holmes smiled.

The boy took off like a streak. Before he had even reached the street corner, four more lads joined him. Soon there would be a dozen or more of them scouting London for clues to the stolen gemstone.

"They are a treasure," Watson said, watching the street urchins scatter at a dead run. He grinned down at Holmes. "And what would Inspector Lestrade think if he knew how many of your cases were solved by information those little lads dig up?"

Holmes shrugged one shoulder. "We all have our ways, Watson. Besides, I _have_ told Lestrade. He doesn't believe me. Snobbish man."

"So what now?"

Holmes rose from the steps. "Lunch," he said lightly.

"Lunch? Now?"

"Well, it _is_ almost noon, and I didn't have breakfast."

"_I _ate breakfast," Watson pointed out. "_You_ slept - until Lestrade showed up."

"Unconscionable behavior for a professional man. He should have sent a constable with a note first." Holmes entered the house. "After lunch, we will go to St. George's gemology department and do a little research."

"On what?" Watson asked.

At the base of the stairs, Holmes turned. "Why, on the Cabochon Blue of course. In particular, on Lord Gowan's family, and how they found themselves owners of such a fabulous gem in the first place."

"I can't see how something that happened thirty or more years ago could possibly help discover who stole it now."

"You never know, Watson. Sometimes the most arcane bit of knowledge might be just the clue needed."

Outside, they heard a boy shouting. It was enough to cause them to turn and wait. An instant later a little lad of about six years burst through the entry door and skidded to a panting halt before them.

"Mr. - Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, Billy?" Holmes stepped back down from the stairs to the floor level and squatted in front of the little boy. Billy's face beneath the freckles was bright pink from his run.

"I have - I have -"

"Deep, even breaths, Billy. Nice and slow." Holmes began breathing slowly and deeply in an exaggerated fashion, willing the young street urchin to imitate him. The two breathed together in perfect synchronization for a full two minutes before the boy swallowed and nodded.

"I got somethin, m'lord. Maybe."

"All right. Let's hear it."

"Burnson an' his gang. They's eatin' lunch at the Savoy."

"Really?"

"Yessir. I seen 'em earlier, just a bit ago. The minute Wiggins told us what you said, I said to m'self, this'n could be important! They's even ordered wine an' stuff."

"Indeed."

"I raced all the way here after Wiggins said it, m'lord. So's I could be the first to tells you." His eyes were eager. "Think it'll earn me a guinea, Mr. Holmes?"

"Quite possibly." Holmes rose, his hand going in his pocket. "Here's a shilling for all the breath you spent racing here. You're a good lad, Billy."

"Yessir, thank you, sir," the boy grinned, gazing in admiration at his treasure. Holmes opened the door for him, and little Billy skipped happily back out onto the street.

Watson asked, "Who is Burnson and why do we care that he is eating at the Savoy?"

"Because Burnson and his minions are petty thieves of the lowest ilk. For them to be eating at the Savoy means that some nefarious little job they just pulled was incredibly lucrative."

"But this theft wasn't little, Holmes. It would take a professional to pull something like this off."

"Or," Holmes thoughtfully pointed out, "a small group of idiots who only have to follow someone else's orders. What better way to throw suspicion off oneself than to use those of less fortunate ability as the actual perpetrators."

"So if anyone does get arrested ..."

"... It will be the tools and not the actual thief."

Watson rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "It's a good possibility."

"More than a possibility, Watson. I think little Billy may just have earned his guinea."

"So what's our next move?"

"Lunch of course," Holmes smiled. "But at the Savoy."

* * *

><p>Later that same afternoon, after a relaxing lunch at the Savoy and a pleasant stroll through the streets of London while trailing after Burnson and his three compatriots, Watson unexpectedly found himself in a violent altercation in a grimy little box of a house in one of the poorer parts of London. And to think it all started because Holmes tapped Burnson on the shoulder and asked ever so politely as to the current whereabouts of the Cabochon Blue. Naturally enough, Burnson had taken exception to the question.<p>

Some days, Holmes' lack of tact could be most annoying.

The brute came at Watson with a wild haymaker. Watson ducked the blow, then used his cane as a bludgeon, crashing it into the back of the man's knees. Already off-balance from the crazed swing, with his legs scooped out from under him, the man went down hard. Watson used the cane again, this time knocking the man unconscious.

That was the second villain he had fought. The first lay in a heap on the other side of the small room, no longer a threat. Catching his breath, rubbing at his always sore leg, the doctor turned to watch Holmes finish the last of the other two street thugs.

One had already been vanquished by Sherlock Holmes' unique fighting style, a martial art which Holmes called _bartitsu_. It was something he had learned when, as a callow youth, he had toured the Orient. Now the second and most stubborn brute, Burnson himself, was succumbing to those lightning quick jabs, slashes, and punches. With one last startled cry, this man went down too.

"Well, it took you long enough," Watson chided lightly.

"Picky, picky," Holmes replied in a stilted, sing-song rhythm, brushing dust from the fight off his black coat. His eyes searched the tumbled mess of the room, peering into shadows and corners, seeing everything, missing nothing. He strolled the length of the small area, kicking obstacles and garbage out of the way, overturning boxes and crates and looking inside of them, yet never once losing track of their conversation. "Really, Watson. You fought two. I also fought two, but Burnson is as big as your two put together. One might assume you would take the logistics of the situation into account before chastising me." Kneeling, he rolled one man out of the way so he could look underneath him, and then searched the man's clothing for good measure. A wad of bank notes was found in one pocket. Holmes estimated the amount, then put it back. Noting the angry knot on the man's head, he made a _tsking_ sound and murmured, "That bump's near as big as a our missing sapphire. And here I thought you were a _responsible_ physician."

"He _did_ attack me first."

"My exact words regarding Nanny. Yet you never allow me to give _her_ a knock on the head."

"Your altercations with her are mostly of your own doing, Holmes. Besides, a gentleman never strikes a lady."

"No?" Holmes shot Watson a glance, his lips pressed in a quick, crooked grin.

Watson grinned back. "I think if you tried anything like that, Mrs. Hudson would teach you a firm lesson."

"She _is_ a brawny, brutish creature." He rose. His eyes darted, taking in everything.

"It isn't here," Watson offered.

"So it would seem. Still, it never hurts to be thorough. If nothing else, we might find a clue as to where to proceed from here." He moved to check another man's clothing and found another thick wad of bank notes.

"I doubt it's still even in London." Something as priceless as a sapphire cabochon the size of a hen's egg was too dangerous for the thief to keep in the same city in which he had stolen it, especially with Scotland Yard roving the streets and storefronts looking for it. It was probably on its way to France or Germany by now. Watson added, "It might even be cut by now into several smaller gems."

"Which would be a terrible pity," Holmes remarked, searching through a third man's clothing and finding more bank notes, "for it is reputed to be a remarkable stone. Truly unique."

"According to Lord Gowan."

"Yes. According to him."

Since sapphires were nearly as expensive as diamonds, Watson could only agree. He cast a wary glance at the four men lying unconscious on the floor. Their clothing was old and worn, their personal hygiene questionable. In fact, Watson could see tiny white nits in Burnson's dark hair. He would have to remind Holmes to wash his own hair quite thoroughly that night.

He frowned, "Are these truly the thieves, Holmes?"

"I said so, did I not? Really Watson, you _must_ keep up."

"They just don't look smart enough to steal such a rare prize."

"Each one of these men is holding an average of one hundred pounds apiece, and I guarantee you, Watson, that one hundred pounds is more than all of them put together have earned in the past five years. Besides, as I specified before, I'm sure the plan was not of their own devising. However, there can be no doubt that these men are indeed our culprits. If the payment alone is not enough proof - observe." He knelt beside one of the men he had knocked unconscious. "See his shoes?"

"Yes."

Holmes indicated the thick accumulation of reddish-brown soil around the sides of Burnson's footwear. "Heavy clay soil, in which _rosa canina_ grows quite abundantly. And as you know, Lord Gowan has dog roses growing all around the perimeter of his house. Remember the prints we found by the study window?" At Watson's nod, he went on. "This man entered the bed of the roses and stood in one place for several moments, during which time his feet sank down somewhat in the moist soil. Hence the thick line all along the sides of his shoes." He turned slightly and pointed to another man. "That one has only a light crusting of the dried soil upon his shoes. He no doubt served as the look-out."

Watson nodded his understanding. "With the other two supplying the diversion."

"Precisely. Ahhh." Holmes' brows lifted, and he reached in his tool kit to retrieve a pair of small forceps. With them, he plucked something from the man's collar which was invisible to Watson's eyes. He held the forceps in front of his face, studying it closely.

"What is it?" the doctor asked.

"One blonde hair of a pale flaxen shade."

"Lord Gowan's maid!"

"Just so. Thus we have solved the basic mystery of the theft itself." Holmes rose to his feet. "Burnson and the maid are lovers. Somehow he convinced the woman to aid in the theft. Last night, when Lord Gowan made his nightly trip to the safe to place in it his gold watch and his wife's jewelry, this brave fellow here was waiting by the study's window, standing still among the dog roses. When he saw Lord Gowan open the safe, he signaled to his look-out at the corner of the house. The look-out in turn signaled for the other two to begin their distraction."

Watson said, "Lord Gowan told us the maid was in a panic because two drunks had burst through their front gate and were fighting on the lawn."

"Also verified by the maid herself. It was those two there." Holmes nodded toward the two men Watson had felled. "Note the grass stains on their clothing. And during those few brief moments in which Lord Gowan exited the front of the house to shout the brutes away, the maid removed the Cabochon Blue from its case, put the empty case back in its precise location inside the safe, and pocketed the gem. Lord Gowan was only gone for a matter of two or three moments, not long enough for anyone to have stolen it in any more complex fashion. After the Lord retired for the night, the maid opened the window, gave her lover the stone, and locked the window again. The whole affair took no more than five minutes."

"It might easily have been weeks, even months before the theft was discovered."

"And would have been had Lord Gowan's brother and new sister-in-law not chosen to visit on this precise day. As Lord Gowan told us himself, and as verified by the lady in question, the sister-in-law wished to see the famous family gemstone. Sheer good fortune for Lord Gowan, pure bad luck for the thieves. And thus Lestrade came knocking on our door at the crack of dawn this morning."

"Eight a.m. is hardly the crack of dawn, Holmes. But either way, the Cabochon Blue itself is still missing. These men have already sold it."

"Or, more accurately, been paid for their efforts after turning the gem over to the real thief. Had they sold it themselves, they wouldn't have enough pockets to hold all their newfound wealth. And as you yourself pointed out, Watson, these men aren't smart enough to have planned a theft this successful."

"And now?"

"We allow Lestrade to question them. Perhaps these brutes will succumb to the sheer weight of the ineptitude thrown at them by Scotland Yard. If not, therein lies our most difficult task - finding the gem before it disappears forever."

* * *

><p>Inspector Lestrade and his men took the thieves back to Scotland Yard with instructions from Holmes to notify Lord Gowan of his maid's treachery. Whether she would be arrested or not was entirely dependent upon Lord Gowan's ability to forgive transgressions perpetrated against him. Based on what he had seen of the man, Holmes was fairly certain the woman would be imprisoned before the day was out. He tried to make a wager with Watson over the matter, but for once the doctor practiced discretion and declined the wager. After all, Watson had also met the enraged Lord Gowan.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Case of the Cabochon Blue**

**Chapter Two**

Professor Hawkinson in the gemology department of St. George's University of London made Holmes' beloved Stanley look like a spry teenager. If the detective had not understood the sheer impossibility of it, he would have sworn the old man had been working there since the school was founded in 1733.

"Ehhh?" the elder shouted.

Sherlock Holmes drew a breath of patience and tried again. "The Cabochon Blue! Belonging to Lord Reginald Gowan's family!"

"Capricorn Shoe? Perhaps you want the astronomy department?"

"No, no. It's a gemstone! A sapphire!"

"Backfire?" Hawkinson looked around, startled. "I didn't hear anything."

Holmes felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his eyes. It didn't help. Nor did it help that Watson stood to one side, barely suppressing his laughter. Silent his merriment might be, but his shoulders shook with its repression.

"Someday you too will be old like this man. In fact, you will be old before I will," Holmes shot the doctor's way. "And when you are, I shall laugh at _you!_"

"You're only two years younger than I," Watson returned cheerfully. "And I dare say I'll be the one in better shape by our old age."

Holmes closed his eyes. _Patience_, he told himself. _Deep, calming breaths._ He opened his eyes prepared for another round with old Hawkinson. Instead, a pair of soft hazel eyes gazed back at him. Startled, he actually took a step back.

The girl was pretty, with dark hair and those striking hazel eyes. She smiled at him. Professor Hawkinson had sat down at his desk and was mumbling to himself over some papers.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I was working in the files when you came." She shrugged. "We don't really get many visitors here. I'm Sarah Wilkins, Professor Hawkinson's assistant." She extended her hand.

Holmes took it, more relieved than he cared to admit at having someone to deal with who owned a brain younger than the pyramids.

"A pleasure, Miss Wilkins. As I was explaining to your esteemed superior," he inclined his head toward old Hawkinson with a tight smile, "it is imperative that I have a look at whatever information you have for a sapphire called the Cabochon Blue, owned currently by Lord Reginald Gowan. His grandfather brought it back from abroad upon his retirement from the military some thirty-odd years ago."

The gemology department at St. George's University was a treasure trove of information regarding all manner of gemstones. Countless years before, Hawkinson, then a young man and a new professor, had in his zeal made arrangements with every jeweler, pawnbroker, and insurance company in the city for information on any and all gems of note which passed through their hands. Size and shape, carat weight, color and density, flaws or lack thereof, estimated value, as well as whatever history of the stone they were given - all was passed on to St. George's and kept on record here. After at least a thousand years of Hawkinson gathering and compiling such information, the files on such noteworthy stones were both detailed and extensive, and far superior to even that of a museum.

The girl smiled. "The Cabochon Blue? My my, what a popular thing it must be! You're the second person asking after it of late."

Holmes tensed. Watson came to stand beside him. "How so?" the good doctor asked, frowning.

"Might I inquire as to the identity of this other person?" Holmes added.

"It was a couple actually," Miss Wilkins replied. "A married couple. A Mr. and Mrs. Sidorov. I believe it was Feliks and Grusha Sidorov. Russians. Very nice people. I remember so clearly because I've never met anyone from Russia before."

"Go on," Holmes prompted her.

"Well, there's really nothing more to tell. They actually asked for the information about four weeks ago, but it took me some little time to find the information and then cross-reference to make sure there wasn't something new that hadn't been added to the file yet. It took me a few days. They came back the next week to see what I had found."

"And their demeanor?" Holmes asked. "After seeing the file, were they pleased? Excited? Angry?"

Miss Wilkins shrugged. "Pleased, I suppose. They were speaking in Russian, but they seemed happy enough when they left."

"And do you still have the file readily available?" Holmes asked.

The girl smiled. "It's actually in my stack of filing. I hadn't gotten to it yet. A moment please." She disappeared around the corner. It was only a instant before she came back with a slim folder in her hand. "I'm afraid there isn't too much here."

"But enough to satisfy the Sidorovs. Thank you, Miss Wilkins."

She smiled. "I'm so glad I could help. Well, I really need to get back to work now. When you're finished, just leave the file with Professor Hawkinson."

"Of course." Holmes inclined his head to her.

"Thank you, Miss Wilkins," Watson smiled cordially.

Just before the girl rounded the corner, Holmes said, "One more question, Miss Wilkins. If I might?"

"Of course." She paused, smiling helpfully, her hands clasped before her.

"This ... Mrs. Grusha Sidorova," Holmes said, adding the 'a' to the end of her surname in correct Russian fashion, "what color was her hair?"

"Pale blonde," Miss Wilkins was quick to answer. "She was an attractive woman. Maybe thirty-eight years old. Maybe all of forty. With some women it's hard to tell."

"And her husband?"

The girl frowned. "Nondescript really. Mr. Sidorov was only a little taller than his wife, and about the same age. He also had blonde hair. Nicely dressed, as was she, but he walked with a limp. His accent was much thicker. Mrs. Sidorov - I mean, Mrs. Sidorova," she corrected, "had to repeat quite a bit of what he said so that I could understand."

"Thank you." Holmes watched her disappear around the corner.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Holmes?"

"Undoubtedly." Holmes looked up to meet his friend's eyes. "Lord Gowan's maid, Marya is in actuality Mrs. Grusha Sidorova and not Burnson's lover at all."

"The maid's accent was very mild."

"Yet distinctly Russian. Perhaps, Watson, we have found our mastermind."

The file held little information beyond the physical description of the stone. As far as its history, the Cabochon Blue had been purchased and brought back from Saint Petersburg, Russia by a Colonel Gerald Gowan in the year 1856 upon his retirement from military service. At that time, Colonel Gowan had taken it to a renowned jeweler in Piccadilly Square to verify the gem's quality and value for insurance purposes. It had never changed hands or been involved in any controversy since then. Upon the Colonel's death, it had passed into the possession of his son Harold, and then from Harold to Reginald. The file included a list thirty-four lines long, each one listing the date and findings of the yearly insurance inspection. There was nothing intriguing or scandalous in its past.

It was a short cab ride to Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade was out on an investigation, but Clarke was there. Watson knew Holmes much preferred dealing with the intelligent constable rather than his usually baffled superior.

"Yes, sir," Clarke said. "She was brought in straight-away after you told us her involvement. And we got there just in the nick of time, sir. Caught her sneaking out the back of the house."

"And when she was apprehended?" Holmes asked.

"Cursed up a storm she did, sir. All in Russian. Fought like a man. It took two men to subdue her."

"And did Lestrade place her in the yard, or in an interior cell?"

"Oh, she's inside, Mr. Holmes. The Inspector thought that best due to the delicate nature of the crime."

"You mean Lord Gowan was screaming at the top of his lungs for justice."

Clarke dipped his chin. "Ah ... yes, sir. That's about right."

Holmes met Watson's eyes, drawing a deep breath. "Clarke, I need a constable's uniform."

"Sir?"

"Just a temporary loan, of course. I have no intention of changing my profession for one of little pay and less satisfaction."

"I ... don't understand, sir."

"Neither would Lestrade. But you, at least, will after I explain it to you. Lestrade, I'm afraid, is near hopeless."

Clarke hid a small grin. "Whatever you need, sir. I'll see to it."

Holmes clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Clarke."

* * *

><p>The near-sighted old jailer pushed the food cart down the aisle between cells. Most were empty, as the majority of prisoners were kept outside in the yard. Only two cells were currently occupied - the first by an older man in a fine but dusty business suit, looking harried and upset; the other by Lord Gowan's erstwhile maid.<p>

Thick spectacles perched on the end of his nose, the gray-haired old constable bumbled to a halt too near the man's cell, dropped his keys, turned around in circles looking for them, finally spotted them after having kicked them, and bent down to retrieve them. He groaned straightening back up, pushed his sliding spectacles back up on his nose, and wisely tucked the keys in the rear trouser pocket away from the man's cell. Unsteady hands lifted the plate containing unappetizing porridge and day-old bread. He groaned bending to push it through the widened bars on the floor specified for such uses, tried twice before successfully pushing the plate through said opening, then groaned straightening. He pushed his sliding spectacles back up again. Frowning, he turned in a half circle trying to locate the 'missing' food cart, found it precisely where he had left it, and pushed it to the woman's cell on the opposite side of the aisle.

She watched him with cold, calculating eyes.

"Good day, sir, good day," the constable mumbled in a friendly fashion, squinting at the woman. "I'm sure Mr. Collins here is right glad to have another gent to talk to."

The woman said nothing.

The old man fumbled with the remaining plate. "Supper time here's always popular, it is. Folks work up an appetite fretting over what the judge'll tell 'em. Or how long they'll be stuck in here. Dreadful thing, being locked up. What's your name, lad?"

The woman stared at him.

"Ah, cat got your tongue, eh? Can't say as I blame you. Dreadful thing, being locked up. 'Specially a handsome young gent like you. Here you go." He bent, groaning, and pushed the plate through the appropriate opening. He groaned straightening. With one hand he pushed his spectacles back up while the other hand went to his lower back. "The old spine ain't what it used to be, no sir. Take an old man's advice and don't get old." He laughed at his own joke as his other hand joined the first in messaging his lower back. He leaned briefly against the bars to the woman's cell. When he pushed away, the keys snagged and fell to the floor.

The woman's eyes noted the keys' new location, then returned to the old jailer. She said nothing and gave no other reaction.

"Nearly night. You eat that, young friend. It ain't the best, but it'll fill your belly, it will. A full belly helps a man sleep at night, it does. Ain't that so, Mr. Collins?"

He bumped into the cart, nearly knocking it over, nearly tripped himself catching it, then turned it around and shambled from the cell block.

"Are ... are those the keys?" Mr. Collins asked in a hushed, hopeful voice.

With a fleeting look toward the aisle doorway, now safely closed, the woman rose from her cot and moved to the bars of her cell. Kneeling, she retrieved the keys.

Mr. Collins swallowed and moved to the bars of his own cell. He hung on to them for support. "Do they fit the lock? Do they?"

She glanced at him but briefly and tried. The first key did not fit. Nor the second. The third slid in and turned with a satisfying click. The cell door swung open with a low moan.

Mr. Collins straightened. "Release me. Please, release me too!"

The woman looked at him, a long penetrating gaze. "Of what are you accused?" she whispered, her Russian accent soft and graceful.

"Embezzlement. They say I stole money from my business partner."

"No killing? No hurt of anyone?"

"No. No!"

After a small hesitation, the woman unlocked his cell door. Together they moved down the aisle. Mr. Collins wrung his hands, agitated. The woman glided along in silence, like a ghost. At the door to the cell block, the woman stopped and put a finger across her lips, requesting silence. Mr. Collins nodded nervously. The fifth key she tried fit the lock. With a whispered prayer, she pushed the door open.

Scotland Yard was between the daytime and nighttime work shifts. People bustled about, many leaving, many only just arriving.

She whispered, "You are my husband," and took her companion's arm. Together they walked calmly toward freedom.

Mr. Collins was sweating. He could barely walk because he was trembling so furiously. "What if they catch us?"

"It will be your fault if happens. Calm yourself. We are almost there."

When they exited the building it was dusk, with long shadows lining the street. Lightning flashed in the distance. As soon as they rounded the first corner, she released her arm from his and started running.

* * *

><p>"See, Watson?" Holmes said, watching the couple leave Scotland Yard's main entrance. "It took even less time than I anticipated. She's not one to hesitate, our Marya. Or Grusha. Or whatever her real name is."<p>

Watson frowned at his friend in the gloom, then reached over and pulled a forgotten bit of adhesive from off Holmes' upper lip.

"Ow!" the detective exclaimed on a sharp intake of breath.

"We can hardly go chasing a suspect through the streets of London with you looking like that."

"At least I found time to put my own clothes back on."

"Thank goodness. Otherwise Lestrade might have arrested you for stealing a uniform."

"Yes," Holmes conceded. "That does sound like something Lestrade might do."

Watson looked up at the darkening sky. A light rain had begun thickening the air, and the doctor's old war wound reminded him that by tomorrow drizzle would turn into downpour. "I think we should have just waited until morning for her husband to come bail her out. Or his representative." A night at home by the warmth of a crackling fire was a wonderful remedy for a leg that hated dampness and rain. "Following someone in the black of night is no easy task."

"True. But as you yourself pointed out earlier, time is of the essence. The sapphire was stolen almost twenty-four hours ago. Burnson and his friends gave up the stone and received payment for their part in the theft sometime between then and their lunch at the Savoy at noon. That has given Mr. Sidorov a minimum of some seven hours or so to dispose of the sapphire. Too much time has already elapsed, Watson. We have to find the stone before it is moved out of London."

"If it hasn't been moved already."

"Yes," Holmes agreed thoughtfully. "If it hasn't."

Watson nodded toward the couple, now walking down the sidewalk toward the corner. "What about the man?"

"Clarke is on it. Mr. Collins will be apprehended as soon as our lovely Grusha abandons him."

"Poor man. To be so close to freedom only to lose it again."

"He needn't fear. He's quite innocent of the crime he's been accused of."

"Oh?"

"His business partner is the real criminal. He set it up to so that Mr. Collins would be implicated."

"And you know this how?" Holmes just looked back at him. Watson sighed, "Oh, right. Of course. The great Sherlock Holmes does it again."

"Really, Watson, you should be accustomed to my brilliance by now." Holmes cast the doctor a quick, playful grin.

"Oh, I find myself quite in awe. But it's not your brilliance that astounds me."

Holmes turned his attention back to the woman just as she shook herself loose from Collins and burst into a run. "Here we go!" he cried, and gave chase with Watson at his heels.

* * *

><p>By the time they reached the Craswell Boarding House in the Jewish East End of London, an area also known as Whitechapel, Watson's leg was aching. Although the woman had dropped from a run to a walk early in the chase, the pace had still been at a sustained speed far too great for a man with a bad leg. The dampness in the air did nothing to help. But he did not complain. He never complained. To complain might cause Sherlock Holmes to leave him behind on many of these more strenuous cases, and that was a threat worse than that of mere pain. Watson thrived on the rush of adrenaline. He would stagnate sitting at home twiddling his thumbs, or else worry himself into apoplexy when Holmes was off by himself in some dangerous situation. No, a little pain was a small enough price to pay.<p>

They hid in a shadowed alley opposite Craswell's. Holmes crouched low. Watson stood. "What's our next move?" he asked - hoping the answer was to stay in one place for a time - while trying not to lean too obviously on his snakewood cane. He spotted a sturdy crate and gratefully eased himself down on it.

Holmes glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but his attention was riveted to the old boarding house. "We'll say here for a bit."

"I can keep going," Watson insisted, knowing that Holmes had taken in the totality his condition with that one brief glance.

"Nonsense, old boy. There is no back door to that old building; it backs directly to the wall of the building behind it, so we'll see them when they leave. And leave they will. The Sidorovs have no choice but to abandon ship, as it were. Their 'tools' have all been arrested, Mrs. Sidorova has escaped jail by what they believe to be the merest happenstance, and Scotland Yard is on their heels. They cannot stay here."

"But the sapphire ..."

"Won't be in there." Holmes glanced again at the doctor. "Would _you_ have trusted Burnson and his minions?"

"Of course not," Watson agreed as understanding dawned. "This was the chance of a lifetime for Burnson and his men. They were not above handing over the stone and collecting their pay, then following one or the other of the Sidorovs here and stealing the stone back again to sell for the sapphire's full price. They would each be rolling in wealth for the remainder of their lives."

"Precisely. And thus we wait, Watson. And watch. And when the Sidorovs have packed their belongings and left this place, we will follow them to the sapphire's location. It won't take long. Time is running out for them too."

"Then you believe the stone is still in London after all?"

"All we can do is hope. But yes, I believe it is. They're obviously not professional thieves. Well-practiced, successful thieves would not be living in a disreputable district like Whitechapel. I no longer believe that Mr. Sidorov has the knowledge or experience required to find a buyer for a gem like the Cabochon Blue in the timeframe he has had to work in thus far." Holmes paused, carefully not looking at Watson. "The rest should be easy, old boy. You could take a cab back home if you like."

"And miss out on all the fun?" Watson grinned.

Holmes' smile was warm. "Good man," he murmured, patting his friend briefly on the arm. "Oh," he exclaimed softly, "here we go."

Mr. and Mrs. Sidorov exited the rundown boarding house. They were dressed in their finest, which Watson knew must be what they had worn to St. George's. Each carried a small traveling bag, each bag hardly big enough to carry more than a change or two of clothing. Holmes was right, he realized - these people were not professional thieves. Their faces were drawn and deathly afraid, their movements jerky with fear.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said, rising. "We'll walk on this side of the street, stick to the shadows, and stay behind by a goodly distance. Keep your hat pulled low. Mrs. Sidorova has only seen us once, this morning, but it might be enough for her to recognize us if we aren't careful."

The rain grew heavier as they followed the couple through the night. Thankfully, they did not have very far to travel before the Sidorovs turned into a street of shabby one-room homes hardly bigger than their shared common room at 221B Baker Street. After a quick rap on the door, they entered the fifth house down the row. Holmes and Watson crossed the street and approached more circumspectly.

Inside the house, excited voices talked all at once.

"Quite a stir in there," Watson whispered when they stood beside the door.

"So it would seem," Holmes agreed. He closed his eyes the better to concentrate. "Something about a trip, but we had already surmised that ourselves. The word 'blue' which must be in reference to the gemstone. Her name is definitely Grusha and not Marya, by the way. Damn, I do wish now I had paid more attention to my Russian language tutor. Mycroft is fluent. Oh." His eyes blinked open. "I do hate being wrong."

"Wrong about what?" Watson asked.

"Mr. Sidorov has a different wife."

The doctor's eyes widened. "You mean he's a polygamist?"

"Of course not, get your mind out of the gutter, man! Grusha is his sister. Apparently Miss Wilkins at St. George's misunderstood."

"Ah."

"Hands up, if you please." The man's voice behind them was deep and far too serious to argue with. Holmes and Watson raised their hands. The voice said, "Jakov, knock on door."

A second man appeared around the corner of the house. His accent was pure London East Ender. "We take care of our own down here," he murmured ominously, and knocked on the door. When it was opened moments later, reluctantly, he slipped inside, saying, "Feliks, Grusha ... you have visitors."

"Go," said the man behind them. Watson glanced over his shoulder to see the gleam of a gun pointed their way.

"He has a gun," he whispered by Holmes' ear.

"Yes," Holmes said simply.

"Shall we?" the doctor asked, tensing his muscles for action.

"No," Holmes answered mildly. "We wanted answers. Let's go find them." And he stepped inside the tiny house. Watson had no choice but to follow.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Case of the Cabochon Blue**

**Chapter Three**

He took in everything at a glance. The shabby little home's interior, with two dilapidated cots, one occupied by an old woman, and several sleeping rolls on the floor. The small fireplace glowing, a cauldron of soup perfuming the air with nothing more appetizing than the scent of cooked cabbage and onion. A few bags packed, a few more still in the process. The old woman wheezed in her sleep, oblivious to her family's upset. And all those other haunted faces, staring at him and Watson as if they were devils incarnate.

He understood everything in an instant. Everything but the particulars. For those he required answers.

The man with the gun spoke in rapid-fire Russian to the home's inhabitants. Grusha replied. Her brother, Feliks wrapped his arms around the shoulders of a weeping woman. Three children continued staring. The fourth, the oldest boy, a teenager, glared at them with pure hatred and picked up a bludgeon from off the floor. Grusha saw, and reprimanded him in sharp tones. Reluctantly, the boy put the bludgeon back down. His glower, however, remained firmly in place.

An uncomfortable silence descended, broken by the one woman's crying, and the old woman's labored breathing. Into that silence, Holmes said quietly, "It cannot have been easy, being Jews living in Russia under the May Laws. You were right to escape."

Eyes widened in surprise. The weeping woman sat down on the empty cot and drew her youngest child, a girl of about two years, into her arms. The other two children came up on the cot beside her and leaned close. The teenaged boy fisted his hands at his side.

"What do you know of the May Laws, Mr. Holmes?" Grusha asked harshly.

"Enough to understand how any sane, thinking person would want to be rid of them."

"You know this man?" the gun holder noted in surprise.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Grusha nodded, "and his accomplice, John Watson."

"Um," Holmes put in, "the word 'associate' might be more appropriate than 'accomplice.' An accomplice implies criminal behavior. Such as stealing the Cabochon Blue."

"What's he talking about?" asked the man with the East Ender accent.

"Nothing," Grusha answered.

Feliks gave what sounded like a request, or perhaps a polite command, and Holmes picked out the word 'go' in the mixture of guttural syllables. More exchanges in Russian ensued, followed by the two men withdrawing. They drew the door shut behind them. Holmes and Watson lowered their hands.

"They are good men," Grusha murmured, perhaps in apology for the gun.

Watson's attention fixed on the wheezing old woman. He turned his gaze to Feliks, then to Grusha. "I'm a doctor," he said. "I might be able to ease her breathing. If you let me." That was his Watson, Holmes thought, always prim and proper and polite. Except in the gambling dens of course, but the Sidorov family needn't know about that.

A long look was exchanged between brother and sister. Feliks met Watson's eyes and nodded with a murmured, "Yes. Please."

Holmes caught Grusha's eyes. "I assume the gemstone is here?"

The woman swallowed, but nodded her head that it was. Without another word, she moved to the small fireplace, withdrew one of the hearthstones from its place, and from beneath it drew an object wrapped in one of the children's discarded shirts. Eyes averted, she handed the bundle to Holmes.

Watson knelt beside the old woman's cot, his own pain forgotten as he worked to ease the woman's distress. His expression was grim.

Slowly, Holmes unwrapped the precious package. Inside, the Cabochon Blue was everything that Lord Gowan had said it was. A sapphire the size and shape of a hen's egg, polished smooth as glass. It caught the dim light in the little house, caught it and swirled it inside of itself, making the gem appear to glow with it's own luminosity. It was a treasure beyond price.

"Now you take us to jail," Grusha said, watching him. It was not a question. Feliks stood by her side. How much of their conversation the brother understood, Holmes didn't know. He imagined the man understood more than he could actually speak.

He folded the child's shirt back in place around the Cabochon Blue, for it was hard to concentrate on the business at hand with such a magnificent sapphire winking up at him. "No, now is when you answer my questions," he amended. He began a slow pacing across the narrow room. "The old woman is your mother. I assume Colonel Gerald Gowan was your father?"

Both siblings reacted to that. The younger woman on the cot had ceased her crying. She asked something in Russian, and Feliks answered her and ended with what sounded like a request. Nodding, the woman gathered the children and left the house. The older boy went only reluctantly, with a final glare of hatred cast at the detective.

"How you knew?" Feliks asked.

"I didn't know until I entered your home and saw you, sir, for the first time up close. The cleft in your chin is identical to that of Lord Reginald Gowan. Of course, he does own several more chins than you do, but it's only the first one that matters." He glanced at the prone old woman on the cot. More softly, he added, "I imagine she was a great beauty in her youth."

"Yes," Grusha answered.

"Colonel Gowan was stationed in Saint Petersburg, that much is fact. I assume that is also where the Sidorov family lived?" At Grusha's nod, Holmes continued. "Your grandfather was a jeweler of some renown in Saint Petersburg, for only a respected and skilled craftsman in the gemological arts would ever find himself in possession of such a rarity as the Cabochon Blue. Despite the prejudice against Jews in Russia, he was well-respected and moderately wealthy. When many of the Jewish faith were being expelled into the Pale, he was allowed to remain in the city and practice his art, as were other highly skilled Jewish artisans. Business was exceptional. It was because your family traveled in elevated social circles that your mother met Colonel Gowan. She was young and impressionable at the time, a woman of no more than ..." he glanced from the siblings to their mother, "... about twenty-five years at the time they met."

"Fifteen," Grusha corrected quietly.

"Ah yes, I failed to take into account the ravages of her current illness. Colonel Gowan was already a man in his sixties, yet still a dashing fellow and wearing a tidy uniform, and he quite literally swept your mother off her feet. She, being a good girl of proper upbringing, demanded a wedding. Colonel Gowan refused to participate in a Jewish ceremony, or a religious ceremony of any kind, but he did agree to a secular marriage despite the fact of having a wife and children back in England."

"Mama did not know!" Grusha protested. "He tell her wife is dead!" Feliks spoke in a hushed whisper. Holmes listened as Grusha quickly translated for him. He found his ear for the language returning a little, and he caught a few more words in the flow of sound. When brother and sister fell silent, he went on.

"Things went well for the first few years of their ... 'less than legal' marriage. You were born, Grusha, and then later on Feliks. However, sentiments against the Jewish population in the cities were worsening. Your grandfather's business was collapsing as fewer and fewer Orthodox Russians came to his door. Deportation to the Pale threatened, and finances were tight. Am I right in assuming that Colonel Gowan offered to take the Cabochon Blue to an Orthodox jeweler in Saint Petersburg and sell it on your grandfather's behalf?"

Grusha's eyes glistened with unshed tears. In a choked voice, she said, "The price would have been enough to buy off authorities and continue living in city for a few more years."

"But the day Colonel Gowan left with the stone was the last day any of you ever saw him again. Or the gemstone. And thus your mother returned her family to your grandfather's surname rather than allow any of you to continue carrying the name of the man who betrayed her family."

"Yes. But how did you know he stole it?"

"Elementary. A colonel in the British military, although well-paid, is not a wealthy man. Colonel Gowan could never afford to buy a museum quality gem like the Cabochon Blue. Thus his methods must have been much more ... unsavory."

Grusha leaned against her brother for support and quickly translated for him. Feliks watched Holmes with astounded, suspicious eyes. Grusha said, "After this, our grandfather was broken man. Authorities came. We were deported into Pale."

"And life became a struggle."

"Yes."

Holmes cleared his throat and began his slow pacing again. "You had saved as much of your grandfather's lost wealth as possible through the years. You escaped Russia and used part of that money to come here to England. The first thing you did upon arrival was to find out where the Gowan residence was." He halted, turning inquisitive eyes on Grusha. "How did you manage to procure employment in the house?"

"Maid was pregnant. Lord Gowan did not want pregnant maid." She shrugged. "God took care of rest."

"I would say more a lucky coincidence than divine intervention. Nevertheless, you gained employment and discovered that the Cabochon Blue was still in their possession and locked away in Lord Gowan's safe. You decided to steal it back, and you worked to come up with a viable plan for the theft. But you needed help, because if things went wrong your brother could not escape. Not with a crippled leg. Fortunately, here in Whitechapel thieves are easy to come by. You met Burnson and his gang and a plan was formed." He closed his eyes, his brilliant mind racing through facts to the conclusion. "Only one last thing to protect yourself and your family. You needed to know when the next insurance inspection of the stone would take place. You needed to wait until afterwards to steal it, as that would give you a full year to move away casually without drawing suspicion. To that end, you went to St. George's and asked to see the file. You were happy to discover that the last inspection had occurred in the month prior to your employment. The timing for your theft was perfect. The remainder of the money leftover from your passage to England went to pay off Burnson and his gang for their part in the crime, as evidenced by the unappetizing cabbage stew your family is now reduced to eating. The rest, as they say, is history."

Grusha translated for Feliks, and afterwards he dropped onto the cot and put his head in his hands. Watching him, Grusha said, "Feliks has never been strong man." She glanced out the window where the teenage boy's face could be seen glowering at them through the glass. "I am strong. My son is strong, but too angry. I was raped in pogram - anti-Jewish riot. My son has many fathers, and none." She turned back to Holmes. "I wanted take him to America. Land of free. Buy him education. Give him better life where anger is not necessary so much." She closed her eyes. "Will he go to prison too?"

"Of course not. This is not Russia."

"Then I have done this much for him, at least."

Watson chose that moment to rejoin them. In a hushed voice, he said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. ... ah, Miss Sidorova, but there's nothing I can do for your mother. She has a disease called emphysema. Tomorrow morning I will send some medicine to make her more comfortable, but I'm afraid she doesn't have much time left." He paused, then added, "You should know ... she won't survive a passage to America."

"I know. She knows too. We discussed. Rather she would die moving forward than not moving at all."

"She is a wise woman, your mother," Watson murmured.

Holmes stepped forward and pressed the cloth-wrapped Cabochon Blue into Grusha's hand.

The woman's eyes widened incredulously. Her brother watched them from the cot, his own gaze confused, frightened, hopeful, paranoid.

"I ... do not understand," Grusha said.

Holmes reached inside Watson's coat, then his pants pockets, feeling around, searching.

"Holmes, what are you ... damn it, man, get your hands away from my ... would you _stop it!"_

"Ah, here we go." Holmes retrieved Watson's small notebook and a pen. Opening it, he quickly scribbled down a name and address, tore it from the notebook, and handed it to Grusha. "Take the stone to this man. Feel free to tell him everything. He owes me a favor. Tell him to give you an exceedingly generous sum for the Cabochon Blue. Say it precisely that way - '_exceedingly generous.'_ Tell him if he does so, the favor he owes Sherlock Holmes will be wiped clean. Do you understand?"

"Yes, but ..."

"Then immediately take your family to the Port of London and book passage on the first ship to America. Waste no time, Miss Sidorova. Scotland Yard will be out in force looking for you. Lord Gowan will make sure of it."

"Yes, yes!" Tears spilled over onto her cheeks. Her brother rose to put an arm around her shoulders.

"It is of utmost importance that you move your family confidently and with greatest haste. I cannot emphasize that enough."

"Spasiba, Mr. Holmes! Thank you! Oh, thank you!"

"Spasiba," Feliks said in a choked voice.

"You're welcome. Um, puzhalsta. Puzhalsta." Holmes, as always, was uncomfortable with accolades. He turned to his friend, anxious now to leave. "Come on, Watson, let's leave this family to their preparations." As they turned toward the door, Holmes suddenly found himself enveloped in Grusha's arms.

"You are blessing, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My family will never forget you."

Gently, he extricated himself and told her, "Just make sure you're all on that boat, Miss Sidorova. The first one going to America."

It was a relief to be outside that little hut, out in the fresh, damp London air again. The streets were wet and slick, with puddles everywhere, but the rain had thankfully ceased falling. The two men walked in silence for some time before Watson spoke.

"Well," the doctor said, "I certainly didn't expect the evening to end with us becoming felons."

"Felons? Whatever do you mean, old boy?"

"We are now accessories in the theft of the Cabochon Blue. Surely that must have occurred to you?"

"Don't be such a dingy bird, Watson." Holmes walked down the dark street, his movements free and unconcerned. "We were hired to investigate the theft of the Cabochon Blue, to determine the identity of the thief, and then return the gem to its rightful owner. That is precisely what we did."

"Morally, yes. But that's not how the courts of London would see it."

"The courts of London cannot prosecute what they do not know. And I doubt Grusha and her family will be telling anyone any time soon."

"But what will we tell Lord Gowan?"

"The truth. More or less. That we spent our time running down leads and investigating clues, but in the end we were unable to retrieve the stone before it disappeared for good. We'll make our report to him, oh ... say tomorrow night some time. Or perhaps the following morning would be even better."

Watson grinned. "After the Sidorovs are well on their way to America."

"And after Mycroft has safely hidden the stone away from prying eyes."

Watson stumbled in surprise. "You're sending Grusha to your _brother?"_

"Of course. No one else I know intimately has the wealth required to fund a whole families' trip to another continent. And believe me, Watson, if they're careful they'll be set for life with the money my brother will give them."

"Amazing."

"Besides which, Mycroft enjoys pretty little baubles like the Cabochon Blue, and in his possession this precious sapphire will never be cut down into smaller stones, which I'm sure you agree would be a crime far worse than its theft. And when at last he tires of it, I imagine some museum somewhere will receive an anonymous donation of a very rare and precious item to put on display. The Sidorovs get their fresh start in America, Mycroft gets a new play-pretty, the gem remains intact, and someday a museum gets a prize. It's a winning scenario all the way around."

"Not for Lord Gowan."

"Lord Gowan is a boor. Besides, he'll have a happy ending too. He'll have all that insurance money to keep him warm at night." He went on before Watson could. "Scotland Yard has four deserving criminals to prosecute for the crime, so they'll be satisfied as well, and put a close to the whole affair. Burnson and his men will finally receive just punishment for their crimes. And as per our agreement with Lord Gowan, we get our payment with or without the return of the gem, which gives Mrs. Hudson a happy ending when we pay her this month's rent. Oh, and Billy gets his guinea."

"All the pieces tied up in neat little bows, eh?"

"Not all," Holmes replied, growing serious. "Ill-favor toward Jews is not confined to just Russia. It's here in England too, and all over Europe, and it's escalating at an alarming rate. Mycroft believes it will come to an ugly head within the next fifty years or so. The Sidorovs will find it in America too, and I'm afraid their fresh start will lose much of it's shine after they get there. And sadly, Grusha's son is far too susceptible to the anger such prejudice brings in its wake. I doubt an education alone will cure him of that."

"But we can hope the best for them," Watson said quietly.

"Of course, old boy. That's precisely what we'll do." The rain had begun to fall again, and Holmes noted his friend's increasing reliance on his cane. Casually, he said, "This damnable rain is liable to last all night. What say we cross over to a busier road and catch a cab back to Baker Street?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," Watson replied. Both weary, the men spoke no more of the Cabochon Blue that night.

* * *

><p>Several nights later, they shared a companionable silence in their home at 221B Baker Street. Watson was reading a medical journal. Usually after a particularly interesting case, he took great joy in scribing the tale into his journal, but not so with the case of the Cabochon Blue. For reasons he considered obvious, that was one story which would die with the people involved. Too many lives were at stake should the truth of the whole thing become known.<p>

Holmes lay on the floor, his head resting atop the snarling head of the tiger skin rug. He wore his ratty old robe, his dark hair disheveled. For once, he slept peacefully. Gladstone lay stretched out beside him, and Holmes' hand rested on the faithful dog's side.

Watson shared that sense of peace, knowing that justice had been served and that they had done the right thing for the Sidorov family. Oh, Lord Gowan had screamed and ranted about the loss of his gemstone, but in the end Holmes was right about the insurance money. Once Gowan had received his payment, they hadn't heard a peep from him since, and he did not suspect the truth of what had actually happened.

Holmes stirred in his sleep. Mouth twitching, he reached up and scratched his head. Then more vigorously.

Watching him, Watson frowned. When Holmes scratched his head again but a moment later, the doctor put aside his medical journal and rose. He approached the prone detective and squatted down by Holmes' head.

Holmes rolled over onto his back. He scratched his head again.

"Oh dear," Watson murmured.

Holmes' eyes shot open. Doctor and detective gazed at one another for a moment, each of them seeing the other upside-down.

Holmes' broke the impasse by saying, "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking at you."

"Don't look at me. Not like that."

"Not like what?"

"Like _that_. As though you're studying a specimen. It's unnerving."

"I'm staring because there is something I forgot to tell you."

"Oh?"

"You won't like it."

"I don't like you staring at me either."

"You won't like this more."

"I doubt that," he scratched his head again, "because your stare is most disturbing. Well, go on, man. Spit it out."

"You have lice."

"Lice?"

"Yes, head lice."

"The little bugs?"

Watson sighed. "I'm afraid so. I meant to tell you early enough to prevent it."

"But you forgot."

"Yes, I'm afraid I did."

Holmes scratched his head again. "I knew having this infernal dog in the house was a mistake."

Watson drew back at the insult. "Well, it's not Gladstone's fault! You got the lice from fighting Burnson."

"Burnson?" Holmes sat up and turned to face the good doctor.

"When you two were wrestling about, some of the little buggers jumped from his hair into yours. If you had just knocked him out properly without all the fun and games ..."

"Fun and games? Watson, the man was twice my size!"

Watson frowned. "Now I've insulted you."

"Adding insult to injury, more like." Holmes scratched his head almost frenziedly. "So what's the cure for this infestation?"

"I have some good strong lye soap in my office. I'll fetch it for you." A few moments later he returned with the lye soap. He handed it to Holmes. "Now scrub your hair thoroughly and repeat at least twice. You might need to use this every day until the lice are completely gone."

Holmes looked at him askance. "What a dreadful thing for you to have forgotten. Is there anything else you've forgotten to tell me?"

Watson shrugged, his eyes glittering with mischief. "I can't remember."

THE END


End file.
